A Witcher of Ice and Fire
by FicSmith21
Summary: Geralt's search for Ciri led him into the heart of Velen and through the aid of an old friend, Kira Metz, via portal, traveled towards an elven ruin. But when the portal had settled Geralt found himself taken not to Al Gahid, but in a foreign land. To a place called Westeros.
1. Through Time and Space

Geralt awoke with a face of cold water, smelling of rot and human excrement. He was missing his sword, both silver and steel and was hung bare from waist to shoulder.

"Wakey, wakey." The guard flashed a toothless grin. "How much you want to bet he breaks before noon?"

"Hans, you're not getting out of this mess that easily."

"Yeah, I know."

He shuffled the dice and threw them on the table.

"Two pair."

"Come on. Daddy needs a brand new belt."

"Fuck." He stared down at two dice below him as snake eyes stared upward back at him.

"Heh, heh. You're not getting out of this mess that easy."

The third man rolled and scored a six before looking over at Geralt's form in the corner.

"Hear he took a king's guard before they carted him off."

"What's he here for anyways?"

"Besides murder? Conspiracy."

"Blokes been snooping around in ways that made him extra suspicious. But still." The guard looked again towards Geralt, unshaven, lice covered, half naked, with a despondent expression on his face. "It's a shame to see him in this state given what he was."

"Let him rot with the rest of the Northern spies. At least until the Tickler gets a hold of him.

The door opened, blinding Hans, as a trickle of light emanated from the hallway.

"Oi, the eunuch." He looked towards the approaching figure. "Guy gives me the creeps."

"Everybody out. Gentlemen, your table."

The man was large, rotund. He wore fine clothing and a golden robe and just as well draped his hands into his sleeves. "The Tickler, I presume."

Varys sat down. The room silent, as he looked towards the incapacitated Witcher.

"I've been told that you killed ten of our men yesterday."

"Twenty."

"Four."

"What's it to you?"

"And that you've been searching through Flea Bottom."

"I've been searching for someone."

"A woman with ashen hair and a scar on her face," Varys smirked. "No, Geralt I am not the Tickler, but they do however call me the Spider."

"Your name is Geralt of Rivia. Your whereabouts, prior to your arrival in Hasting are unknown, as if taken out of thin air. You are, quite curiously, astute with magic much like the Warlocks of Quarth, and are capable of influencing the minds of others through hand signs, of drawing fire, much like yourself, from thin air, and of crafting barriers both to defend and to enshrine others. You wield two swords, one steel and the other silver, but over the prior week have only used the steel one. Why is that?"

"Ones for humans, the other for monsters."

"Monsters?"

Geralt hesitated, unsure of whether to divulge more information but falling below the man's all knowing stare he suspected he already knew.

"I'm not from Westeros."

"From Essos?"

"No. Previously I was in a place called Velen in a world far away from this one."

"Other worlds? Come now."

"It's true."

A pregnant pause. A moment silence gathered above the two men. And the Spider began to speak.

"Do you know how I became The Spider, a eunuch?" He asked rhetorically. "When I was a boy, I was poor, lived across the sea. What I couldn't beg for I'd steal and learned one thing after nearly losing my hand. That there's nothing of greater value to steal than knowledge.

Unfortunately, as I learned, another came to the same conclusion and duped through a lack of knowledge once again I fell into the hands of a sorcerer." He paused, gauging Geralt's reaction as the later struggled not to move in his seat. "I can still remember him tossing my privates into the fire, as well as the disembodied voice I heard later that night.

There are stranger things in this world, Geralt, than in mine or in any other's reality. So, Geralt, why don't you tell me a tale of this 'Velen.'"

"In Velen, in my world, monsters are common."

"Like manticores?" Varys asked, referring to the small, insect-like creature.

"No. Like dragons. Wyverns, and trolls. There are also people who kill these monsters for profit called Witchers. We can use magic and through a ritual are given powers far surpassing other men. There are also sorcerers in my world. But they can do far more than I've heard your Warlocks of Quarth can."

Varys paused, considering the new information. "Magic has long dissipated from Westeros. But returning. Along with dragons and an exiled noble intent on conquering the country with three of them. Which brings me to my request, Geralt. Westeros is in a state of disarray. In exchange for information about this ashen haired woman, Cirilia, I want you to fight for us."

"Against dragons?"

"No. Against men. The disarray comes not from dragons but from a civil war that threatens to tear this country apart. The Northern rebellion will be dealt with but I want you to travel to the Riverlands and lay siege beneath Kevan Lannister against House Tully. Then, and if you serve us faithfully, we'll provide you not only with knowledge but will bankroll your search for Ciri."

Geralt loathed politics, and bound to them again could not help but grimace, but the proposition voice by the eunuch, the Spider, was the best lead he'd obtained in weeks, perhaps months.

"When do I set off?"


	2. One For the Road

Geralt unveiled the map, tracking his course from King's Landing to Harrenhal, as the boat careened slowly down the Blackwater. It had been two days, three remaining and he along with the sailors were losing their composure.

"My men are on edge."

Osmund Kettleblack. He'd seen the man in King's Landing and liked him even less up close.

"Is that so?"

"When my men are on edge they start raping. That or killing each other."

"In that case the fault lies with the commander."

"I don't like you Geralt. You reek of piss. Have eyes like a snake and hair like an old man. You'd best watch yourself. Cramped up and in tight spaces things can get heated on ships."

"And I don't like you either, Kettleblack. You're a two bit rapist with neither discipline or charm who made it this far through nepotistic connections. But I agree with you about the last part. So best watch your back."

Osmund drew back as if winding up for a punch before being interrupted by a nearby cough.

"Gentlemen, some of us are trying to enjoy our trip."

The man, sitting at a table surrounded by sailors was dressed well, clearly of noble birth, and with a smile plastered on his face. His clothes were bare of ornaments or of valuables. All except for a mockingbird pin stitched to his neck. One look from Osmund and his next few actions told Geralt all he needed to know about where he stood.

"We're not finished, Snake Eyes. Not by a long shot," said Osmund as he left the room. The strangers brown eyes rested on Geralt's.

"Clearly Ser Kettleblacks men aren't the only ones on edge. You look distressed. Perhaps clear your head with a game of blackjack?"

Five hundred dragons provided by Varys, enough for decent armor and equipment for a new Roach, though trifling for anything of high value.

He'd made a name for himself both through Gwent and dice poker, though his acumen with blackjack was scarce. If there was one thing Geralt could be called however, it was 'adaptable' having quickly picked up the former dwarven game before placing first in Novigrad's Gwent Tournament.

"Don't mind if I do."

"Good, good. Do you need an explanation or do you already know the rules?"

"I could use refresher course, that's all."

His smile never left his face and Littlefinger continued. "Player get five cards over the course of a round with the highest value hand winning that round. There are fifty two cards in a deck and thus innumerable combination but the most valuable is a royal flush: king, queen, joker, ace, all of the same suit. There are four suits: club, diamond, heart, and spade.

"Sounds more like Poker than Black Jack."

"Poker?" A rare look of confusion ran across Littlefinger's face. And was just as quickly gone.

"I think I know the rest. Combination pairs are worth more than unpaired hands with a few special ones like Full House or a Straight."

"Astute, and also correct."

"Let's play."

Both men rolled out their cards and put their chips on the table. Littlefinger was fishy, an idiot could tell that much but the card sharks were always the most gullible.

"Straight."

"Two Pair." Peter laid out his cards and shrugged, accepting defeat.

The dealer laid out a new a set of cards, prompting Geralt to overlook his hand. 'Six of Hearts, Six of Clubs, Two of Clubs, Three of Diamonds.' Summation. 'Two Pair.'

Littlefinger did the same.

"I have three of clubs and a one of diamonds. You can raise on this one."

He paused, "Am I lying, Geralt?"

Experienced as he was in the courts of Emyr and King Foltest Geralt could see subterfuge. The Lodge used plenty and in his line of work a gullible Witcher was soon a dead one, just like Gaetan, who'd been scammed by a client.

"No."

"No," Littlefinger laid out his cards. Three of clubs and One of diamonds, just as he stated.

The dealer once again began to dispense the cards.

Queen of Clubs, Queen of Spades. 'Two Pair, so far,' Geralt thought. 'I'd better raise.'

"Raise."

Littlefinger's left eyebrow rose.

"Raise? Are you sure about that?" The coinmaster smirked.

Two Pair was a solid hand but it was possible that Baelish had Three Pair or even a Straight. That would beat his Two Pair handily.

"Raise," Littlefinger added. The dealer took four more chips and placed them into the growing pile.

'Three Pair,' Geralt was in luck. The dealer had dispensed the third card prompting Geralt to look down at his newest addition.

"Raise."

"Again?" Repeated Littlefinger.

"Yeah. I'm sure."

"Fourth Street," the dealer laid down the next to last card.

"Raise," repeated Geralt.

"Determined to get me off your tail, eh? Very well. Raise."

Geralt cursed. It could be a bluff, but the chance of that was rapidly disappearing.

"Call."

The dealer laid down the River and Littlefinger revealed his hand.

"Full House. That's beats your Three Pair."

The dealer slid four hundred dragons worth of chips to Littlefinger. He smiled.

"Looks like you're in a bind."

Geralt silenced a frown. Those were Varys's dragons, and without three hundred buying armor would prove difficult.

"The flop," the dealer detachedly laid out the first card.

'Ace of Diamonds'

"Call."

Geralt maintained his poker face, allowing not a muscle to move as the dealer dropped the second card, a Four of Clubs.

"Fold."

"Getting cold feet?" Littlefinger surmised and Geralt didn't answer. He shuffled his cards.

"You know, Geralt. I expected a lot more from the eunuch's new lapdog. I do hope this money's not taken from his account."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Geralt eyed the first card of a new flop.

'Joker of Clubs.'

The second.

'Ten of Clubs."

He called as the third card was dispensed.

'Nine of Clubs, Eight of Clubs.'

"Raise."

The dealer revealed the final card, heaven or hell, determining the hand's status as a Flush or a dud. Peter could scarcely keep from licking his lips.

"Straight Flush. That beats your Full House, Baelish." And for the first time he relaxed his face and let a smile creep on it. "I hope that's not taxpayer money."

"I wouldn't think it," Littlefinger replied.

The dealer slid half of Geralt's lost dragon's back at him. He could quit and still afford the armor. He pawed the dragon's sitting in his pocket. 'But if I play I can have castle steel.'

"Raise."

Littlefinger sweated, Geralt sweated. And the dealer dispensed the second card.

"Raise."

"It's a bluff," Littlefinger added. The dealer dispensed the third card.

"Raise," Geralt upped the ante.

"Raise," and Littlefinger responded. The pot was now twice as large as when they started. The dealer dropped the next to final card. The two men glared at each other from across the table and Geralt opened his mouth.

"Raise."

Staring up at him were five Diamonds: a Ten, a King, a Queen, an Ace, and a Joker.

"Royal Flush."

The coinmaster stared at Geralt's hand flabbergasted.

"I'm out," said Littlefinger, "While I still have my shirt."

Amidst a group of sleeping sailors and a delighted Witcher Baelish departed from the table.

"By the way," said Littlefinger, looking back as he walked away, "the King's Road is arduous this time of year."

A threat as with Kettleblack? A smirked greeted his face and he tossed Geralt a penny.

He smiled.

"One for the road."


	3. Something Ends, Something Begins

God's Eye, in the center of Westeros, appeared no smaller than an ocean as it bordered the ruins of Harrenhal castle, with its high walls to complete the defense. They came in through its waters, and as burly men removed crates and packages from the _Delorer_ , Geralt watched on, the wind blowing through his hair as he held to the mast, the sounds of screams echoing in symphony with that of seagulls.

"Not so tough now are ya?" Said the Tickler, as he held a flame against a tin. The tin squealed and as its occupant burrowed into the prisoner he divulged everything he knew.

"Thought Tywin told you not to do that." He was a tall man clad in glistening armor. The sort to be expected in any number of stories or in the service of the Duchess of Beauclair. Over his shoulders was strewn a cloak, gold in color and on his head, a helmet of steel.

"Tywin isn't here. Besides, Lord Clegane rules Harrenhal now."

"Haven't you heard? Lord Tywin's arriving soon." That shut him up, and the torture technician gradually put away his tools. And brought out the nail pullers for a less wasteful procedure.

"Good boy Vylarr, at it again, eh," said a hook nosed Lannister Guard, "Come on. Let's go wait in the brigg. Geralt? This must be the 'monster slayer' I've heard about."

"A pleasure."

"Plenty of monsters in Westeros."

The war had been unkind, or perhaps the 'smallfolk' as his new hosts had taken to calling them had always been destitute. Next to him Jarod hummed a rendition of the "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" as Vylarr's armor clanked behind him.

"This is as far as we go. Me and Jarod have some work to take care of in Shanty Town. You look in need of arnaments, Witcher."

"I could use a few odds and ends. Chain mail, but nothing to restrict my movements. A new sword, something better than what I have."

"Yaren, here, is a top notch Smith. Best in Harrenhall. Well, the only one in Harrenhall after what happened to Lucan."

"What happened to Lucan?"

"Served under Lady Shella Whent. When the Brave Companions stormed in and took this place they notched his head up real high."

"Heads, spikes, walls," Jarod smiled bitterly.

"It's going to cost you a bit for castle steel in these parts. And you want something strong but light?"

"Got an investment from Lord Petyr Baelish a while ago. Here's hoping it will settle the account."

Vylarr whistled and smirked. "Pulled one over on Littlefinger, eh? Come Jarod. A hundred grimy, strung out, charming lads won't very well be kept waiting." Vylar glanced behind him towards his companion and the two trotted off. Further on, into the castle Geralt heard the echo of hammers and a cough. Eventually all smithy's got the cough but the pang's emanating from blade to anvil spoke of the old master's strength.

Geralt pawed the coins in his pocket to ascertain that they were there.

"How much for a steel sword, Yaren?"

"Depends on the type of sword."

"52 inches in length, with a hilt of 12 inches. And try to keep it below 40 ounces."

Yaren placed a finger to his chin and spat out an estimate.

"A sword like that would cost you 400 dragons."

"How much for chain mail?"

"300 dragons."

Geralt shuffled through his coin pouch and offered the 700 and made his way through the keep. Harrenhall had over 30 hearths and just as many stairways, enough to catch Geralt off guard if not for climbing the even more imposing Craite residence. A door sat ajar atop the final set and with a creak the beleaguered professional stepped in.

"Ah, yes, 'the Witcher.'"

Tywin scarcely looked up as he continued scribbling.

"Varys tells me you killed four of our men the other day and that you have a talent for violence."

"When necessary."

"Normally you would be hanged" He glared. "But with three kingdoms in rebellion it will soon be necessary. I won't bore you with details you've no doubt already heard but I want you to support Kevan Lannister in the Riverlands, to lay seige to Riverrun, and to hopefully gouge that old fool Brynden Tully."

"You want me to take Moat Cailin and Winterfell while I'm at it?"

"Careful. I want you to use your not inconsiderable skills to support my men on the field. Lord Clegane, as well as Ser Kettleblack will assist you, as your superiors, where you will serve as a foot soldier."

"Clegane's a mad dog and so is Kettleblack."

"But exceedingly useful in a tight situation and you are an unproven quantity. Here."

Tywin slid the parchment across the desk and towards Geralt.

"What's this?"

"Your orders related to any work in Maidenpool. I was surprised to learn that a man of common birth could read. Who taught you?"

"My old sword master, Vesemir. Taught me everything I know. Swordplay, as well as how to read and write."

"Your literacy may be of use in the future. Are you familiar with ravens?"

"Not at all."

"Then Lord Kevan will make you familiar. Outside is a mare, purebred, as I've been told is to your liking, along with my brother, Kevan Lannister."

Geralt feigned a bow and made his way towards the door. He turned around. "An honor, you grace. By the way," said Geralt. "Have we met before?"

A pensive expression passed over Tywin's face.

"No. I don't suppose we have," said Tywin and Geralt closed the door.

Far below the Kingspyre stood a horse tied to a post and tent holding Kevan Lannister. The Witcher immediately saw the resemblance, his blonde hair going grey, just an inch and a half away from Tywin's.

"Lord Lannister?" Geralt spoke.

"And you must be Geralt of Rivia. Are you ready to set off?"

"Almost. Lord Tywin said something about handling ravens?"

"I can teach you that much. Follow me."

The pair made their way from the outlying camp and upward towards the Tower of Dread, relic of a time when Lady Lothston consumed the blood of prisoners. Kevan opened one of the cages lining the inside of the aviary.

"This is a raven. It can be used to send messages from post to post but once sent must be carried back."

"Like messenger pigeons."

"Yes, but much smarter than pigeons. This one can repeat short conversations."

It cawed and ruffled it's feathers. Kevan took the scroll tied to its back and it flew away.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing important. Only that Clegane is cutting a bloody swathe through Lannispool. When will you be ready to leave?"

"Just as soon as my sword and armor are finished."

"Yaren is exceedingly quick so they should be done in a few days. Until then I've set up a tent for you to bide your time with."

It was long enough to become acquainted with most at the camp. Pylon, who literally whittled away the hours of morning with a knife and any number of wood pieces, Jorth, whose modest upbringing belied skill with a pike, and Roach. This Roach appeared more skittish than the last one.

Unaccustomed to the 'foul smell' of magic that caused cat's to hiss at him but sturdily built.

"At least this Roach won't be chasing monsters."

In the corner, a few meters away from her, sat a man, Pylon, dulling his blade on a piece of wood.

And two more practicing further still, one, the hook faced man, Jarod, wielding a training sword and another a dull pike.

The pikeman edged closer, turned sideways, his left leg following his right as the swordsman backed away, shield in hand, worn as a buckler on his left wrist.

Suddenly the pikeman flurried violently and evasion was all he could do, his sword faltering in its ability to produce a killing blow, as it likewise flailed around.

 _You're not in the circus. Pirouette._

Jarod lashed out wildly against the distancing pikeman, only to be usurped by his reach.

"Dead."

He held the pointy end against Jarod's chest and the two exchanged hands as Jarod was helped up.

Geralt, for his part, only hoped his new steed wouldn't bite as he reached for the mouth piece and noosed it from the front of her head. Mounting from the side he used his right foot to gain height and swing his left leg over the saddle before squeezing his thighs, prompting the horse to move forward.

"Woah, there, Roach.," said Geralt, as he used the mouth piece to stop, and he was immediately hit with the smell of sulfur.

"Been wondering when you'd show up."

"Had to get acquainted. Do you have the blade."

"Of course."

Geralt unsheathed the sword as it silently passed from beneath the scabbard.

"This is good work," he said.

"52 inches with a 12 inch hilt and below 40 ounces just as specified. I added some talmite to strengthen it further."

This was castle steel. Far superior to the dreck he'd looted from bandits in Loften. He swung the sword to the side and reached for the chainmail. It was bulky but fit him adequately enough.

"I'll come to you if I need any repairs."

"You won't," Yaren responded.

The summer heat went far into the night that day, as the men at camp played knife games and diverted their anxiety with cards and ale.

Geralt recognized this one.

"N-n-nice to m-m-meet y-your acquaintance," uttered Pylon.

One wondered how a man who couldn't steady his voice could do so with his hands while whittling.

"Don't let Pylon fool you. He's a right lad. Jorth. No last name, or 'of Rivia'."

"Yeah. I saw you practicing outside earlier. You're fairly good with a pike."

"Unlike a lot of people here this isn't my first. Became 'fairly good' with a pike earlier on when the war started, digging ditches and fighting Robb Stark's army."

"Argosa. Five tours and counting. You'll never see a drier place north of Dorn, Pylon."

Geralt drank deep from the mug, listening to the chatter around him.

"So what's your war story, Geralt?"

"Not really a war story. We barely knew we were even involved until the battle was over."

"Do tell? How does one weather a battle without even knowing it?"

"Regis, Dandelion, Cahir, and I, some old friends were making our way across a major highway when we were attacked by what we thought were raiders. Nilfgardian infantry. Seemed they'd mistaken us for Lyrians. Anyway, eventually we were forced to diverge and hold off one of the shores. Got a knighthood for my trouble." He put down the mug. "Along with this."

And pointed to a scar on his arm.

"A nasty arrow wound, Geralt. Is that how you ended up here?"

"That's a story for another day."

"But a knight, though. Save for Vylaar with a stick up his arse we don't see too many of your kind here. You said you saw us training earlier. How about you show us how it's done?" Jorth smirked, as the other two followed.

"Right now?"

"Why not? I'm only a little bit drunk."

"Sure," Geralt grabbed his steel blade without unsheathing it, retaining its form within its scabbard.

Beyond the camp the torches cast a dim light.

"You want us to come at you one at a time?" asked Jorth.

"Do as you will."

Pylon yelled and with a heave swung his sword towards Geralt. He flew past Geralt and Jarod followed, as Jorth swung his spear upwards, nearly glancing the Witcher's nose. With two behind him and one in front he advanced and then, parried Jorth's attack before landing a blow of his own.

They hesitated, staring intently at each other, Pylon and Jarod, unsure of whether to attack. Geralt decided for them and with a swing of his sword, shattered Jarod's shield in two and struck him on the head before turning to Pylon.

"S-s-s-shit," Pylon stuttered. And gave one final yell before swinging blindly.

Geralt abstained from shaking his head.

"Pylon. Don't panic. Wait until your opponent has an opening and then strike. Jarod, don't rely so much on your shield. If you're going to dress lightly learn to dodge, otherwise wear a helmet. Jorth."

Humiliated, Jorth awaited his criticism.

"Swing less widely. Your swings leave too much time for your opponent to respond."

"That was pitiful," Jorth replied. "We're leaving in one day and couldn't even land a single blow."

"There's still time before we get to Riverrun. Focus less on what will happen when we get there and more on improving right now."

Geralt regarded the three Lannister troops.

"For now on we'll train twice a day. Once in the morning and again at dusk."

"Y-yes, M'Lord," yelled Pylon and the others soon followed. Staring up and at the sky Geralt thought of other worlds, and of the one back home. Was Yennefer waiting for him in Skellige? Had she found Ciri? Geralt thought of his foster daughter, of the Wild Hunt, and drifted off to sleep beneath the stars.


	4. The Mountain That Rides

Alyn Blackwood was a man of principle, but well loved.

His principle was to drink and gamble each day while spending the remainder on whores. Each man inside the rustic tavern cheered for Alyn as they covered their mugs in black ale apportioned by him. "Buy you a drink?" asked Tobbot, as he pulled a chair up near his host.

"Of course, of course."

Tobbot poured him some of his own spirit and sunk his elbows further into the table.

"So what are you doing this far out in Eastport?"

"Just picking up a few odds and ends."

"Oh? Well, allow me to be your guide around Eastport.

Eastport was a small town. Once a bustling center of trade it's title had been taken over by Maidenpool, leaving little else but the farmhands and drifters who passed through to Riverrun.

They turned a corner at the harborside. Then Tobbot downed the Blackwood with a punched to the stomach.

"Fucking Tully, scum," he yelled.

"I have him."

His entourage launched into the alley, ready to cuff the man and carry him off for interrogation. It would be an hour before Gregor and the others arrived. An hour of fun and games.

Beginning with a blindfold and a binding of the hands. Alyn had no knowledge of his locale beyond the fact that he was leaving the port. He couldn't smell the salt in the air anymore, nor the sound of seagulls, replaced by the stale accumulation of dust. Alyn chuckled as a punch to the face cut his jaw.

"Tell us what you know."

"Plow yourself."

Tobbot launched a kick to Alyn's stomach to no avail until the beating became a labored series of heaves from both men.

He took off the blindfold and the room was so darkened that Alyn could scarcely tell the difference. Until a shape took form. He'd never seen a larger man. Gregor stood at 7 feet tall, forcing him to crouch as he entered.

"Bring in the clincher."

Tobbot brought out a metal device resembling a pair of interconnected shoes and fastened them to the feet of his captive.

"Tell us everything you know about the Blackfish," Gregor demanded.

"I don't know anything."

Tobbot turned a crank lodged on the bridge between the two shoes and the Blackwood screamed, cursed, and cried as a screw was driven slowly into both of his feet. It was a scene as common as the clattering of blade's in Gregor's group.

Gregor first, Tobbot in tow, along with the rest of his company would devour the outlying village while laying siege from their encampment, making for good food, hearths, and women.

Some enjoyed it and those too softhearted to do so kept silent, any indignation wilted in the presence of a man who drank milk of the poppy as others did ale. Clegane clutched his temple as pain shot through it, courtesy of the gigantism that heightened his rage. It's said that some men are born to violence. Some are quicker with a sword, or skilled with a bow, or larger than other boys their age. Clegane was all three of these and more, even when compared against his brother.

"Turn it."

Alyn squealed in excruciating pain.

"They're at Lannispool, planning an ambush here!"

"Turn it."

"Edmure! Edmure Tully is leading them!"

"Turn it."

The man broke into a series of sobs as the cranks handle spun and spun. Soon there were no more sobs, no more confessions. Only focus and an unrequited bloodlust to be directed by it.

It was valuable intel, and as the hours passed and night turned to day, the men made their way across the river lands, through farmsteads and wooden shacks, destroying whichever locale they came across as they passed.

"You never were one for small talk, Tobbot. How long until we reach Lannispool?" Said Chyswick as he set fire to a field of wheat. They would take all that they could carry and destroy the rest before the enemy could lay their hand upon it.

Tobbot scrunched his nose in thought.

"Bout a day."

"Mate, you could at least lie a little bit. Are we doing well enough on provisions?"

"Aye. We'd do better if they didn't all go down your gullet, Chyswick."

"We'll find some more in Lannispool."

"Not quite," interjected a brawny man named Eggon.

"Huh?"

"Folks around here have been eating their shoes, so try to ration it out a bit will you?"

"Ration it out?" He chuckled.

"Awe, I'd gut you like a fish, Eggon if I wasn't do so damn hungry."

Chyswick reached for his dagger and Eggon for his, both hands hovering above their respective hips as Dunsen and Tobot looked onward.

They laughed and both men gave a simultaneous heavy chuckle.

Dunsen nodded his head in agreement, his bull helmet clanking as it moved.

"Can never tell with you?"

"With what?"

"What you're thinking with that pot on your head."

"Meets kettle. This pot is some fine craftmanship. The brat who made it certainly thought as much."

"Aye, brats never know their limits."

"Neither do you, Chyswick."

The silence was broken by the throng of a hammer.

"Ai, any of you cunts want to set up camp?" yelled Shitmouth.

"Right, right. I'm on it. Don't want Gregor to ask me twice."

Chyswick took a nearby post and began hammering it into the ground as a bald man, Polliver, handled the sheets. He draped them over the battlement created by Chyswick and once finished scooped up a portion of beans prepared by Eggon.

"Gonna be shitting these ones out tomorrow."

Tobbot grimaced. "Hopefully away from the tent."

"Oh, won't have time for that. We leave at sunrise. Have to get the drop on such and such Lord of whatever."

"Lannispool."

"Exactly."

Chyswick grumbled at the meager meal. They'd raided ox meat, lard, cheese, and stock fish a few weeks ago and now they were eating stewed beans.

"Guess even Lannister gold only goes so far."

"If there is any," added Eggon.

"What does that mean?"

"Word is Lannister mines are fresh out of gold."

"Well, fuck that. We should defect."

"Ah, but you're forgetting the benefits of serving King Joffrey, first of his name."

"Beans and farmer's daughters? Fuck that." He ate his beans.

"They say there's still plenty of food in the North."

"They say a lot of things," Tobbot interjected. "They say that Robb Stark rides a dire wolf into battle and that his army's a lot better than Holster's."

"I'd rather beans in the Riverlands than be wormfood in the North. Who's there to worry about here, fucking Edmure Tully?"

"Edmure who?"

"Seven Hells, Polliver."

"Seven Hells, indeed."

Far away could be heard the clanking of Gegor's armor.

"Best be quiet from here on out," added Eggon.

Gregor clutched his head and took a swill from his canteen, before making a beeline towards the newly erected tent, as his squire, Joss, followed closely behind him.

Joss Wilson untightened Ser Gregor's breaches and disconnected the parts binding his shoes. "Can I get you some milk of the poppy, M'Lord? Some wine or rum?"

"Plenty of that in Lannispool."

Joss debated with himself on whether to bring the milk or not, perhaps to deposit it at the entrance of the tent, before drifting off to bed.

The entire company awoke bright and early that morning. Gregor in full plate armor and the remainder bearing scraps. Lannispool, little more than a small hamlet could be seen in the distance, as the sound of cicadas and chattering of the men onboard was drowned out by the gathering racket of hooves.

Eggon set fire to a straw-woven roof. "This oughta bring em out."

Stirring could be heard from within the shack and a villager emerged. All before having his head split from an axe wielded by Eggon.

As Eggon and his band made their way further through the settlement more irate villagers approached. Polliver slew them all with ease, stabbing one end of Needle through the neck of an old man as Eggon tore up the rest. He parried the blow of one oncoming peasant. Swords weren't cheap, so this peasant must have gotten his hands on a fair bit of coin. But he was no match against someone with training and experience.

Further into the village the crowds began to pare away as Chyswick kicked open a door before drawing a knife to a boy near it.

"Well, bugger me," said Shitmouth, grinning through rotten teeth.

"Think they have anything worth killing him over?" Asked Tobbot, looking over the boy, the old man, and the woman present.

"P-p-please don't. I'll do anything."

The old man began to grovel, and Chyswick, he laughed. Before cutting the boy's throat side to side.

"You'll do anything, you say? How about that wife of yours."

"On it, old man," Tobbot unbuckled his breaches and tore the top of the woman's frock.

Elsewhere Gregor skewered a peasant on his lance and threw his body aside. He dismounted and looted the corpse before making his way further towards the homestead.

Large, irate, and strong as an ox, Gregor shattered the door and bisected the man behind it.

He ran his hands through each drawer, tore out each cabinet, and ripped each outfit he could find apart.

Nothing.

He thought back to Eastport, to their journey from King's Landing. To "Pretty Polly" and her cunt sack of an innkeeper. To the festering, uncomfortable heat of metal plate. And to their travel to Lannispool amidst the pounding in his head.

To the realization that his informant had lied.


	5. Geralt In the Riverlands

Geralt regarded the hanged man's tree, its branches shifting in the wind like a chandelier of bloated corpses.

"How long until Maidenpool," asked Geralt.

Kevan laid his hand out, testing the rain. "About half a day. With any luck we'll arrive before the downpour begins. Or else we're have to remain here with the wagons."

Geralt blanched at that. While the drizzle obscured the smell somewhat his witcher senses stung at it nearby. There was an odor of rot and horse dung, though everyplace in Westeros had one or both.

They stopped a mile off from Maidenpool near the Inn At the Crossroads. The floors were worn, hinting at age, and of a better time when business flourished and Geralt could hear the heavy patter of rain up above. His doublet was drenched and his boots, soaked all the way through.

"How much for a room for the night?"

"Five stags."

Geralt reached into his parcel and removed five copper coins, only for the Innkeepers face to drop upon seeing Geralt's company. Lannisters. Kevan's armor made a heavy echo on the floor as his squire, Robert Brax, removed it. Soon the tavern was awash with the smell of pigeon pie and the laughter of Lannister troops. For Geralt, this was a welcome change from the smell of corpses on the Kingsroad, though his boots still clung to him uncomfortably. He ascended the steps and using the bed as a chair, swapped his sullied boots for clean ones.

"What happened to her?"

He looked at a toothless woman passing by. She was young, no older than ten and five, but her mouth was bare of teeth like an old lady's.

"Got on the wrong side of Ser Clegane", answered the innkeeper.

"Clegane told her to shut up but when she didn't, knocked out every one of her teeth and then his men had their fun with her. Old man was never the same after that. Neither was Pia."

She served him a drink, blackberry ale, before Kevan called him to the side.

"I have a mission for you after the rain ceases," said the Lannister, ringing his cloak of stale water. "A few miles from here you'll find Riverrun. I want you to investigate its outskirts for anything we can use. Jarod will accompany you, as he knows the region well."

"Good evening, Witcher," his acquaintance from Harrenhal declared.

"Been practicing your swordplay, Jarod?"

"Everyday."

Jarod produced a cloak from his bench and draped it over his shoulder. Geralt did similarly as the two plodded into the night. It was quiet for all but the sound of rain, and dark enough to suggest the use of cat's eye. The heavy crunch of mud and dead leaves could be heard beneath their feet as Jarod bent onto all fours to avoid slipping from the incline. They were on higher ground and could see Riverrun from above. Geralt used their vantage point to strong effect.

"High walls, a moat, and a trebuchet near the entrance. Four archers stationed at the Northwest tower with two at the opposite end. They're well provisioned; a siege will be long and expensive."

"See pretty good for an old man."

"I'm not," Geralt began. "Never mind," He stepped down and placed the cloak back over his head.

"So what's the stratagem, Witcher?"

"You should ask Kevan that, though my guess is that he'll try to parlay with Brynden Tully."

"And if that fails?"

"Wait until they have something to offer."

"Kevan's resourceful. I remember a similar siege a while back at Acorn Hall. High walls, heavy fortification. Kevan got forty of the fattest pigs and had them baked below it, cracking the fundament."

"Won't do much good this time with a moat sitting between them."

"No, I suppose it won't."

The next day the rains did cease and Kevan did parlay with Brynden Tully. Kevan approached with a small entourage of troops, prompting the gates to open, and came with two hostages, two squire boys with a dash of red hair. The one who approached them, Brynden Tully, was an older man with a robust and muscular build clad in scale armor bearing the sigil of the fish.

"Not even the real ones," said Brynden, "You disappoint me, though Riverrun wouldn't yield if you had Edmure himself."

"Then why open the gate at all?" Kevan replied.

"Wanted to get the measure of you."

"And did you?"

"Yes," said the Blackfish, "I expected more. Stumbling around for fake hostages as your men rape and pillage the countryside. Your brother is nothing if not efficient, but you? You're twice damned."

"Withdraw and all of it will end, Lord Tully. You'll be given a reprieve and my troops will leave the Riverlands."

Brynden spat.

"Ned Stark was offered a reprieve as well. No, I'm afraid you've hit a wall. Either retreat from Riverrun or enter a siege for two years."

The bridge raised as two bannerman defended his rear.

"Do you have enough provisions for two years, Lannister?"

With Lannister gold Geralt knew they likely did but he was certainly in in no position to find out. If the siege dragged on for more than two weeks he would leave, as Ciri likely couldn't wait much longer than that. He mounted Roach and proceeded to ride towards Maidenpool where Gregor's men had converged in the Inn at the Crossroads.

The tension was palpable. The innkeeper and everyone else remembered what had happened when they were last present but served them out of pure fear.

"It's the squealers, squealers are always dishonest. A man that loose won't be told any secrets," said Eggon.

"Wonder what will happen to him?"

Rolder chuckled. "Oh, can you guess? For all the pain he avoided with that lie he's in for twice as much now. Gregor probably has spleen strewn at this moment." He drank deeply from his goblet. "We did have some fun times though."

"Enlighten me," inquired Polliver.

"Better food and women than we'd had for days."

"Like that one at Lannispool."

"Almost. But this old man wouldn't shut up, saying he'd trade places and how he'll do anything if we spare this boy."

"That old man was a halfwit," said Eggon between swallows of Sister Stew, "We were gonna kill him anyways."

"Layna was better."

"Who?"

"That innkeeper's girl from Harrenhall. Around ten and eight."

Chiswyck corrected him. "Ten and three."

Geralt finished downing his ale, "You raped a girl of ten and three?"

"Aye," said Rolder. "You gonna do something about it, cunt?"

Chuckles were heard around the table but interrupted by a crash outside.

Gregor had walked over to Alyn Blackwood and used his gauntlet to smash his head open like an overripe melon. No one dared go near him during one of his fits.

He left the shed and it was a sight to behold, Gregor caked in Alyn's blood as horrified peasants watched onward. Gregor struck the nearest one and beheaded him before grasping a nearby woman by her hair.

"Let her go, Clegane."

He almost relished it, the thought of splitting the intrusive Witcher in two, as he tossed the woman aside. She crawled away crying, and as Gregor's pace quickened in his approach towards Geralt he winded up, ready to swing his sword.

"Kick his arse," jeered Eggon.

He remained focused. The breath of Roach, the howl of the wind, and Gregor's heartbeat a couple meters away. Geralt took it all in and his cat eyes narrowed.

Another swing and another miss followed by a parry from Geralt landing with a clang on Clegane's plate armor. Clegane swung, this time, scarcely missing the Witcher's head as he ducked to avoid the blow. In a single motion Geralt pierroted and slashed at the opening on the back of his knee, cutting it open and strewing blood across the ground, causing the giant to collapse beneath the weight of his armor. A horn sounded out, signaling the approach of the posse who had tracked him, and Geralt, turning away from the man, grabbed a shield and joined the growing hoard.

They had erected a wall, lances pointed outward to scatter the approaching horses with metal plate held out for good measure. Behind them were stationed a row of archers. While Geralt lacked a lance of his own his crossbow would suffice.

"Noose," Riverrun's own archers fired a volley, their piercing crack serving as the only indication to Geralt as to what was occurring behind his shield. The men on horseback held their ground as more and more foot soldiers rose up from behind them, crushed into a wedge formation. They carried shields just as large and cumbersome as those of the Lannisters.

Shields in hand, they quickened their pace and placed all focus into one hapless constituent of the shield wall. Geralt held his ground as the foot soldiers spread out, but soon it was all over. The wall's flanks were encircled, diverting the entirety of the battle into chaos. Next came the horses and their riders who cut down all Lannisters foolish enough to flee. It's said the Dothraki learn to fire a bow from horseback by the age of four. The Tully were no Dothraki but skilled as they were, mowed down foes from a distance.

Geralt could feel it himself, the arrow protruding from his side that he dare not remove lest he bleed out. The taste of blood in his mouth, produced when one of the Tullys clashed against his own shield. He had been cut down quickly, but only to be superseded by the man directly behind him.

Geralt took out his own crossbow and fired upward towards a man on horseback. He fell over, leaving the stallion to drag his corpse as Geralt made the sign for Igni, clearing the crowd.

"Wildfire…"

"No, it's red…"

Not since Robert's Rebellion had they seen such spectacle, and for the younger men not at all. The archers drew back, all the more focused on Geralt, who did his best to hold them off with Quen. The continuous ringing as each shield broke made him unbalanced and a shrill voice rang above the crowd.

"Formation! Back in formation, " shouted Kettleblack, causing the shield bearers to march forward absorbing Geralt into their rank.

Elsewhere the cavalry steeds became nervous as the Lannisters reloaded their bows.

"Noose," Kevan roared amidst the crowd and a rain of arrows poured onto the Riverland troops from both sides. It was a slaughter. The infantry that moments ago engaged the Lannister shield bearers scattered and their horses, reduced to mobile pin cushions died, dragging their riders with them before collapsed beneath their own weight.

Kettleblack gave the order for the infantry to advance further inward so that Kevan's troops who did likewise appeared to form a V alongisde Kettleblack's, with the Tullys left to die in the center.

Shitmouth watched a final Tully troop flee before letting loose a crossbow bolt.

"That'll do it," he spoke through gritted teeth. "So who's left to clean up this mess?"

"Us," spoke Kevan. "Rot, disease, fester. Can't have all that near Maidenpool. Start piling them up over there and we'll start a pyre."

He looked down at the cold, blue eyes of Pylon as they stared into nothing before setting the mound aflame with wood and oil. The smell, of which Geralt, with his heightened senses, always unpleasantly likened to bacon or ham drifted through the village, proving almost enough to distract him from the gripping pain at his side. The arrow was still there and with the rush of adrenaline finally subsiding the pain immediately made itself known to him.

Geralt took a small knife and proceeded to cut around while biting down on a length of cloth. A portion of it, which he would use to seal the wound further after stitching it up, trailed downward. He was fortunate. As he moved his fingers throughout the open wound he felt the arrow head still connected to its shaft, lodged securely in the bone of his ribcage. He was doubly blessed with the Witcher's strength that allowed him to remove it.

Jorth, the pike man he recognized from Harrenhall, had been less fortunate. He coughed and lifted his shirt, revealing the arrow's base.

"How's it look?"

"Not good," Geralt answered honestly. "We need some honey or alcohol to deal with the infection but even with that a gut wound's not ideal."

Jorth laughed bitterly then winced in pain. "You once told me not to worry about today and to just prepare. I guess I wasn't all that prepared."

"If I die here," he continued, "I want you to send word to my mother in Sow's Horn and to give her the coin I have hidden away. You're honorable, not like many of those here…or me. Have you heard word of Jarod or Pylon?"

Jorth knew from his face what had become of at least one of them.

"And another favor. I know I'm asking a lot. I've seen men go from gut wounds before. No way to die. If worse comes to worse I want you to kill me."

Geralt simply nodded. Though the bleeding had ceased and would as long as the arrow remained he knew what would follow was a slow, excruciating death without intervention. His own wound began to fester and Geralt thought back to what he knew of potions.

"There may be a way."

"What is it?" Jorth asked as his face lit up.

"There's a brew that can be made from an assortment of plants. Celandine, White Myrtle, and Arenaria. Good for healing wounds. But there's a catch."

"What is it," Jorth repeated, this time with apprehension.

"If it goes wrong the pain could be worse than the gut wound."

Swallow. That would be the one to save both of their lives, provided that alchemy was even possible in this world.

"What do I have to lose?"

Geralt, upon leaving the tent, used the Axxi sign to silence Roach as he carefully tied the saddlebags to her back, enough for decoctions and any plant material he may find, and traveled towards the Whispering Woods. Robb Stark had defeated and captured Jaime Lannister in these woods, and the trees had developed an autumn tone as winter approached the landscape of Westeros. Beneath the foliage could still be seen the occasional skeleton, stripped of valuables and bearing little cloth.

Geralt stopped at the first stream he came across and tied Roach to a nearby tree in reach of the water. He would approach the dense terrain of the Whispering Woods on foot.

"But not as dense as I'd expect."

He looked downward towards the poison oak to find an assortment of leaves overturned, their undersides displayed to the sky above, and proceeded to follow the trail. One branch from a bush of hemlock had been snapped and some soil displaced onto a lichen covered rock.

"Fell here after crushing a mound of dirt underfoot, into the ravine only for the oak to break his fall."

Geralt observed the indentions of feet on the creek bed.

"Celandine," and proceeded to take out his knife as he severed the flower.

A deep, narrow indention in the ground indicated that someone had pushed off with their toes, scaling the hill above.

"Whoever this was is either a woman or a man carrying a heavy load," said Geralt as he observed a set of faint prints. He drew his sword and sliced an oncoming arrow in two. Geralt focused on the area around him and narrowly dodged a second shaft before vaulting towards its origins. The archer was young but heavily armored and upon Geralt's approach drew his sword.

There were two of them. Or so Geralt thought for an instant as the infection did its work on his senses. "I don't want to fight," he shouted but the man attacked before being subdued in a headlock. He struggled and then forcefully aimed for the wound on Geralt's side.

"I've seen otherwise."

The man held his ground and as he lashed out towards Geralt was cut down with a strike to the head.


End file.
